


Fear and Loving

by DreamWeaver69



Category: X - Fandom, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamWeaver69/pseuds/DreamWeaver69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma has some scary revelations lately.  It's a question of time commitments and laundry. How does the White Queen keep her clothes so clean?  Two-shots.  Same author as Cykiesummers on Fanfiction.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear and Loving

Emma is surprised the first time she asks in passing, how many men Scott has killed, and he replies immediately, unflinchingly, "I don't know."

She watches his solemn, stoic face with its chiseled and stony features for clues, remorse? Regret? Remembrance?

He is not bothered one bit.

She digs around his mind. The answer in there is just the same as his simple verbal statement.

He doesn't know.

He might not even care enough to know.

This changes the way she sees him, and she purses her lips at him as he goes back to the crossword puzzle he was idly filling out with his morning cereal.

The mutant leader of the free world, a man who could destroy more than the eye could see in a blink, scratched in some letters on the newspaper, such a trivial quiz, for a man who acted so ordinary at that moment.

She's heard worse answers before, from other men but coming from him, she's shocked. She's alarmed, and slightly intrigued.

She had not meant to be so interested and invested, but she found this seemingly predictable man to be more and more mysterious than she thought.

That was partially why she kept coming back, deeper and deeper each time.

It's not that Emma's particularly surprised that he has killed before, or even that he's vague about it. Of course, he has to have killed, he has seen lots of violence and battle.

The seemingly stable man elaborated when she did not respond. "There were so many accidents and fights, I couldn't possibly know who or how many people I might have hit along the way, especially with the ruckus."

Emma knows, just from reading his mind and knowing his past, that he had fought against evil and crime or whatever the X-Men had done back in his teen hey-days, without a single body count. Come his college years though, and he felt the guilty and anguished pangs of seeing teammates die as well as killing others himself.

He kept a count then, and vowed to do what he could to protect others, and never take a life.

It isn't until a lot of messed up things happen like possessions and resurrections, and Scott is now older and more jaded and has been in many parallel universes and dimensions, and has stopped keeping count of who, what or how many he kills in his path.

It would be impossible to count.

The old Scott would have been racked with grief and felt himself a monster in some angst-riddled reaction.

Emma's not sure if he accepted that role as the mythological one-eyed beast a long time ago, or if he simply didn't even think about that anymore.

Standing behind him as he sits at the table, she puts a fond hand at the nape of his neck, stroking his rich brown hair. He nods appreciatively, giving her an easy grin.

This is her Scott, for the time being.

Over the course of the day, Emma's thoughts are rather morbid.

She thinks about death, as a blanket of blackness, emptiness, that offers nothing. No pain, no sorrow, no joy, and no nothing. Her own mother must have sought that sort of state from the prescription drugs she kept well-stocked in her bathroom cabinet, to which Emma's brother had gotten into at an early age, rummaging through Hazel's goods.

Emma has killed probably more than Scott has, and she would have been proud of it at one point in her career, but now she is less hazy and evil, she is somewhat more sober and she is somewhat less evil. She blames Scott for taking her evil and addictions.

Her evil was her blanket, it was what made Emma who she is, it took away the lacking life she had up until she renounced her family and her goodness and joined Hellfire and became an evil seductress who was never out of money, jewels, lingerie, bondage weapons, and drugs.

She knows how Scott feels about her bondage days, and appreciates him for it, even though she chides him for being prudish.

They both know he's not that prudish at all.

Emma has known men like Sebastian Shaw, whose brute strength and passive aggressive temper ended the lives of many men and women alike, indifferently, and with a bloody passion.

These people had made murder a social sport for her. She was cruel, and she knew it.

She has known powerful and morally bankrupt murderers who were her comrades. That doesn't faze her.

What does faze her is that Scott has come so far to be able to sit over cereal and talk about his personal death toll so casually. His thoughts don't dwell a second.

This man, so young for his stature, had faced so much in the span he had been alive, and now he was not affected by the tiniest bit, and nearly nothing fazed him, because he was that broad and jaded in perspective. He was a living demi-god, what the ancient Greeks would have called mutants before they knew better.

She wonders if maybe her cruelty had pushed him too far, had infected him as well. He had been so good, so good that he had been the only one to see through her spiteful demeanor when she first arrived. So good that he had trusted her when she seduced him.

The scale of his conscience was still the biggest she had known. But why then, was she now slightly afraid of him?

She eyed him carefully, for the first time warily, as if expecting Mystique or the like to replace him.

Had she changed him in ways opposite from how he changed her for the better?

There had been times during her days of villainy when they had faced off against each other, and either could have killed the other on numerous occasions easily. She wonders what her life would have been like had she killed him then and never seduced him. She shivers to think about it.

She was bad back then. Very bad, and she tried to kill him and all the X-Men or harm them some way as if it were a hobby.

But it was all for business or power or something sinister, which made it all the more evil.

But after Genosha, as soon as she promised to have turned over a new leaf, when all the other X-men were obviously and rightfully distrusting, he had welcomed her in that oblivious and friendly way he had.

He blamed it on the aftermath of his Apocalypse possession and its dark thoughts, but she knew it was out of his goodness, and charisma that naturally drew her.

She had without a doubt in her mind, that Scott would never even want to harm her, and it was a given he could never kill her, even if she was a flaming Phoenix entity.

She was his new weak spot. But as she gazed at the back of his unsuspecting head that morning, she had shivered, thinking of his strong and precise hands around her neck, crushing her.

Something in her thoughts shifted, she couldn't be so sure...

He had none of that masochist streak and violence Shaw had, he did not show his power off to the world like Tony Stark, he did not treat others as inferiors like Namor.

He was the most different man she had met. Had she met him earlier in life, then maybe there would have been a chance for true redemption for her, maybe she would not have become as terrible and cruel, maybe she would have been more like the girl she had been growing up, the sort of girl who asked for men like him, heroes. He was the epitome of power, a force of nature, but with that ruby mask on, bridling and containing his power, and a goofy grin, he was a gentle and kind man who still saw himself as Slim, the nerd with the eye problem.

That night as she lays in his arms, tangled in the twisted sheets, collapsed against his chest as he securely embraces her, she feels the safest and yet the most afraid for her life that she has ever felt in all her experience as her.

She wonders if this is what love is supposed to feel like, and if it is. She's terrified of it, terrified of him. She has never been this terrified in her life.

 

 

PART II.

 

 

The troubling thing about white was that it was impossible to keep that way. It stained and dirtied and discolored easily. A clean white could turn an off white or black by the end of the day. Bleach was a friend, but it had its damaging and sinister smelling ways.

Often, Emma was asked how she did it, how she kept her whites so stark and immaculate all the time, wearing the same uniform everyday?  
Only Scott knew, he who had hand washed her whites before, meticulously using Tide, Scott who had merely smiled endearingly as she held up another maxed up credit card between her index and middle fingers with an apologetic but naughty smile.

She enthusiastically shopped and bought many variations of her white uniforms, she hardly wore the same thing twice, she wore a different set of clothes everyday only it did not seem like that because they were all duplicates.

The shopping was her thing, and Scott appreciated in earnest when she splurged on special lingerie or underwear with him in mind.

He had never known there were so many variations,styles, and ways underwear could look.

Emma and Scott were far from perfect, they were imperfection in a nutshell and they knew it, one embraced it while one masked it with indifference.

They just happened to be two imperfect people who were perfect for each other and happened to look perfect.

Looks define only so little, and such a sensory detail and allure could be quite deceiving as reality.

White was the color of purity, a bride wore white on her wedding day to distinguish her virginity.

Emma knew what she was inside and she was not that, but she wore it anyway, it looked good on her, Christian, her dead brother had told her that many years ago, when she was still a teen brunette with a mentally abusive family and school mates.

"Ms. Frost", all three of the Stepford Cuckoo's chimed in unanimously.

They had walked in, their bodies in sync, their eyes blank and docile as always.

They informed her formally, "Mr. Summers is looking for you, it feels urgent."

She smirked at them, "Are you girls his good little messengers now?"

Celeste said snottily, "You don't have to be such a bitter old spinster."

Mindee intoned, "We were just looking around in his thoughts, and we saw you,"

Phoebe giggled eerily, "And he was feeling a little warm and urgent."

Emma closed her eyes and then scolded, "Girls, you know you can't go in his head like that, that was very intrusive and strange for you to do."

"Whatever."

They all said at the same time.

They left Emma, who had been folding some of Scott's laundry, a domesticated chore she would never do everyday, but something she sometimes did when she had the chance, a casual and tender gesture she often did not even think about as she just put away some of his clean laundry in the places she knew with hers

He did the same for her, and often did his own laundry if there was no service for it.

She fondly touched the softness of his socks and put them away, thinking how silly it was that she was willingly doing a man's laundry, Emma Frost of all people.

The drawer knocked back in the dresser as she swiftly shut it and swirled around with her hands behind her back, as Scott came in, looking distracted and agitated.

He stared at her for a moment, taking the room in and her startled expression as if she had never seen him before.

He said tonelessly and slightly suspiciously, "You've been folding my laundry again haven't you?"

The button up blue shirt he wore handsomely wrapped his defined muscles underneath. He had a cashmere red sweater on over it that Megan Gwynn had gifted him one birthday, it was one of those proper sweaters that a boy who was good to his grandmother would wear. A real staple of prep wear.

Damn him.

Scott stood tall and strong in his neat collared shirt and sweater, looking lost and caught off guard for some reason as he stared at Emma with a foreign air, looking at her and at the bed between them in the room.

They both became painfully aware of the bed in their field of vision.

She felt an involuntary adrenaline rush and her heart accelerated, her throat felt dry as she gulped.

"So what if I did?"

Scott shrugged, "You never do 'middle class' things. Thank you Emma, I'm grateful."

Emma sneered, "Yes, because I can afford not to, and I won't. I just saw some of your load was done with mine and put it away quickly as it was there, and here I was."

He grinned helplessly, "You don't have to hide it. How was class?"

"Utterly draining, especially today, I kind of auto-piloted through. You?"

Scott stepped forward, "Mindee, Phoebe, and Celeste were the best today at math, they understood our new lesson the fastest, which should be of no surprise. It made me happy, a little proud. The other kids aren't as attentive at them, the three in one really are model students, everyone should take after their example. Quire disrupted class a lot, Sooraya shut him up though, she's always a helpful student."

Emma praised, "The Stepford Cuckoos are exceptional pupils."

Her heart skipped, against her will, just like how it would for a student when seeing their crush.

He was considerate and sweet and gentle, and never used intimidation or macho dominance in treating her, he was her equal, she lead alongside with him, he trusted her and she trusted him, they had finally reached that point after much pain and work. His decisions were discussed with her, he saw her not just as his love, but as his ally and co-leader.

Emma Frost, who had been abused in every way during her years under Sebastian Shaw, a woman who reveled in her liberation, and had a reputation for domination and s&m, who was used to relationships with psychopaths who had no moral limits and showed their bond to her roughly, her being a powerful and bold woman was now feeling like a teen girl again around a guy who wore sweaters over collared shirts and seemed genuinely surprised when girls kissed him.

He was not like any of the sadistic greedy men she had played around with before, he was the opposite of what she should want.

She knew his heart, he would never hurt her no matter how infuriating they could be to one another, and while she slapped him around once in a while out of flirtation, he was putty in her hands and did not even slap her much in bed if she asked him to.

Humility and his indifferent manner hid the fact that he was a most powerful man, he had even defeated men of power like Shaw. On the outside at times like these, he was just a nice and withdrawn guy who had no idea why Emma was still with him even though Emma had all the reasons.

She did feel the safest, the most stable within herself, with him, there was no fear of violent rages or sadistic games, he was just Scott Summers, and she did not hate that. It was fun and exciting and felt nice to be in a relationship like this with him, where she could expect the best from her partner, and the sweetest most passionate love.

Yet she knew, what he was capable of, she knew even more than he did, what power he represented, and she knew he could break her if he wanted, but he did not want to, he could be a power hungry immoral person, but he was not, and just that thought that he could, made Emma shiver with fear, apprehension, and excitement. He was one thought away from being the opposite of what he stood for, with just as much power.

She felt a flash of furor and stepped out of her pants, keeping her white boots on.

He stepped forward abruptly, rushing to shut the distance between them and the bed.

They slipped against each other, colliding with a satisfying collision and inertia and then slowly crumbled onto the bed.

Emma felt like she was a million dew drops splashed and scattered, shaking softly on a green leaf, stirred and vibrating by air.

She inhaled deeply, unable to contain herself, as they shared a long kiss releasing pent up frustration and reservation.

He had his arms tightly bound around her, his hand sturdily holding her head, mixed in her hair.

She wrapped her own arms around him, both of them embracing each other as close and tight as they could, rolling around in their spacious bed.

Tears welled up at the corner of her eyes as she hung her head back and hung her mouth open, unable to contain the waves of emotion, elation and arousing fear of his controlled strength and the vast power and strength he had in that control. She let go of all her many controls and disciplines, falling helplessly in an overriding sensation.

She tugged at his brown hair, bringing his head back and attacked his exposed neck.

They slowly, and roughly pulled their adhered lips apart, drawing out long breaths of relief.

"Ohhh, that felt good, Emma. I've been wanting to do that all day, and then I saw you and I don't know what came over me."

She put her hand on the back of his head, scrunching her fingers in his hair against his scalp, "Don't restrain yourself for my sake, darling, I'm glad we were on the same page." She grabbed the soft sweater on him, "You actually wear this?"

Scott, who was lying on top of her now, his khaki covered legs balanced between her legs, and shoved against her, replied good-naturedly, "Yeah, I like it, you can't say Megan doesn't have good taste."

Emma smugly replied, "I don't know...you and her both enjoy Dazzler's music...maybe I shouldn't trust either of your tastes. Hmph, you're perfect for her, why don't you just go for her, she's younger, after all."

She turned her nose up playfully teasing him. Scott chastised her, "Don't even joke about that!"

Shifting against him, she impatiently felt his hard body shoved against her, causing a thrilling friction.

Pulling the sweater up his back and off his head, Emma threw it to the side and looked up at him, his hair had gotten messed up and pushed up when the sweater went over his head. He groaned and rolled off her, "I can't stay right now. I have to go to another meeting with the board, I just needed to see you." He pounded the bed frustrated and kissed her quickly on the lips, "I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, you have no idea." He let out a guttural groan and got up reluctantly, smoothing his hair back.

She stared at his back rippling through his blue shirt indignantly with wide crystal eyes and then put her fingers out, and he froze, then laid back out on the bed, flat like a board.

Crawling over like a minx, she sat on top of him and leaned down to hear his heart beat, "You're not getting away from me now, not after that kiss, Summers."

She slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and he strained, gritting his teeth, "Emma undo this telepathic lock now! I NEED to go. This is not something I can miss! I'm not playing around!"

Smirking, she made her way down to his belt buckle and proceeded to undress her man who was reclining due to mind force.

He struggled, a slight sheen of sweat even appearing at his temples.

She got his pants off and he continued to grumble, "I'm asking-no demanding that you release me now, Emma, this meeting is important, you know what's going on, what our responsibilities are. If you don't let me go, this relationship is over."

She silenced him with a kiss even he got heady from, and she felt his mind release slightly. Moving her body up, she indulged in herself. It wasn't until he had finally fought his brain out of her power, that he roared and sprang up, flipping her over on her back and taking over, as he angrily stared at the clock above her head, it was too late for him now.


End file.
